


And Every Tongue Brings in a Several Tale

by hauntedlittledoll



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Batman: Streets of Gotham, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Birthday Presents, F/M, Gen, Random Literary References for the Win, Shakespeare is My Second Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian struggles to provide adequate gifts for his family members.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Every Tongue Brings in a Several Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from William Shakespeare’s "Richard III."

When informed of Brown’s upcoming birthday, Damian hadn’t been too concerned about what to get the current incarnation of Batgirl.  It wasn’t as if the Son of Batman _needed_ her favor.

It was merely a matter of honour.

So Damian contacted an arms dealer who was ridiculously good-intentioned (if not exactly legal) about a more traditional bo-staff, and made his own necessary modifications.

He had been pleased with his choice.  The weapon was of good craftsmanship and would make a solid replacement for the one that had been sacrificed in the latest downfall of Solomon Grundy.

His efforts earned him a kiss on the cheek, but it was Cassandra’s gift that produced the squeal of unbridled glee as Brown jammed the purple winter hat over her blonde hair without a thought for the summer heat.

Damian might have known; the treasured gift was that elusive shade of eggplant.

* * *

 

His own birthday was satisfactory.  Grayson had purchased several new video games, and conspired with Oracle to filter the graphics into Father’s virtual reality equipment for a more realistic playing experience.

It was clearly the best present that Damian received, although he made sure to display adequate admiration for the rest in accordance to Pennyworth’s view on manners if not in accordance to the values of the League.

Not that Damian would ever admit it aloud, but the Swiss army knife that had been Todd’s gift was a very close second.  There were attachments for _everything_.

* * *

 

Pennyworth did seem quite appreciative of the booklet that Damian had constructed under Colin’s careful tutelage.

Physical proof of a promise made could be very valuable … even if said-promises were simple offers to complete various tasks to Pennyworth’s standards.  Damian  included a slip for everything from dusting the various wings of the Manor, to washing the dishes, from feeding the bats to getting along with Drake for an entire day.

Damian had no doubt that the crafty old man would use every last coupon to his very best advantage, but it was an old leather-bound book from Father that Pennyworth couldn’t help running his fingers reverently over the spine.

* * *

 

Taking what he had learned from Colin, Damian strove to improve upon the gift of his time with a task already completed.  Grayson did not collect material possessions; service would be infinitely more appreciated.

So Damian spent hours working on the Batmobile, tuning the car to peak performance, installing the upgrades that his Batman never quite got around to finishing, and scrubbing it down to boot.  This all had to be done the day of Grayson’s birthday of course while the man was suitably distracted by the party upstairs.  It wouldn’t have been a birthday surprise otherwise.

It wasn’t like he was a sociable creature anyway; Damian was quite sure that he hadn’t been missed.

And when he finally made it upstairs—sweaty, filthy, and possibly too tired to safely patrol—Grayson had saved him some of the cake and ice cream.

Damian ate in the kitchen rather than interrupt the impromptu movie marathon in the den.  The rest of the family had taken over the room to watch the badly-dubbed kung-fu movies that Drake had been so rightfully proud of obtaining for the occasion.

* * *

 

Remembering the out-of-season, but much treasured hat, Damian took a different approach to Cassandra’s birthday.  With some assistance from a female sales associate who thought him “utterly adorable” and “so sweet,” Damian was able to locate a beautiful, but practical sweater in a dark grey yarn.  Under certain lights, it even had a faint silver sheen.

And because it was Cassandra—because his sister _understood_ —Damian hid two perfectly-balanced  batarangs in the tissue paper under the sweater as a private gift just between the two of them … one that no one else need ever know about.

Beautiful.  Strong.  Practical.  Dangerous.  Valuable.  Cassandra.

Damian wasn’t sure about the status of his gift.  Cassandra was quietly serene and gracious in gratitude no matter what she opened whether it was a gag gift from Todd or the more-thoughtful birthstone earrings from Gordon.

If he hadn’t won, Damian was at least sure that he hadn’t lost either.

* * *

 

Gordon and Father’s birthdays were practically right on top of each other.  Pressed for time, Damian could not come up with a feasible gift idea for the most competent of computer hackers, and was not content with the expensive box of chocolates he had settled on—no matter how much Gordon proclaimed to enjoy them.

Damian supposed that he couldn’t hope to compete with Dick’s gift this year—a ring returned to Gordon’s hand at long last.  He simply wished the couple suitable happiness and hoped for better results from Father.

* * *

 

He had worked with the butler on Father’s gift, recovering old treasures from the attic in common, everyday objects like Thomas Wayne’s stethoscope and Martha Wayne’s paintbrushes.  There was a costume from Grayson’s high school play and Todd’s school papers painstakingly-preserved.  These things were part of the Bat-History as well—if perhaps not as ostentatious as the giant penny or robotic dinosaur.

If Father thought them worthy of keeping, they were worthy of displaying, Damian decided.

Father seemed to approve of his actions, running reverent fingers over the cool metal of the stethoscope and smiling at the red-inked A scrawled across an essay on Gotham’s history.

But Damian couldn’t be entirely sure.

His brothers certainly spoke admiringly of his feat—even Drake was suitably impressed—and Damian accepted the accolades that were his due.  Father was much more complicated, however, and for a moment, the man’s expression had resembled pain more than pride.

* * *

 

He made a deal with Poison Ivy to send his mother flowers befitting the daughter of the Demon’s Head.  While not outright poisonous, they should be handled with care and their properties responsibly managed … but they were beautiful and deadly just like his mother.

She did not contact him with either thanks or criticism, but Damian hadn’t expected any sort of reprieve.  He was not disappointed.

* * *

 

Damian accepted defeat as Drake’s birthday approached.  He could not hope to choose the correct gift on his own, to ask for help would be to share the victory, and his difficult relationship with Drake would undoubtedly sour the teen’s appreciation of Damian’s efforts anyway.

So Damian simply walked to Drake’s favorite coffee-shop after a board meeting at W.E., quickly calculated the yearly cost of Drake’s caffeine habit, added a pastry allowance, put a three thousand dollar credit in place for his older brother, and was done with it.

Perhaps next year …

* * *

 

Todd had unexplored depths.  Not only did the man show up on time to the performance, he had located a suit and possibly even combed his hair.  Damian was rather impressed as he led the way into the theater.

The tickets had been easy enough to obtain and easy enough to pass on.  Damian had left them for the older vigilante in Todd’s current safe-house, half-expecting his older brother to blow it off as a waste of time.

His intel was solid, however, and Todd slung an arm around his neck as the usher moved to seat them.  The man grinned from ear-to-ear as they waited for the usual lectures on etiquette to cease, and Damian relaxed slightly.  The histories were not as popular as Shakespeare’s tragedies or comedies; it was entirely likely that Todd had not seen this one performed live before.

“Don’t tell anyone, Chickadee,” Todd muttered in his ear as the lights dimmed and the curtains parted, “but I think you’re my favorite.”

 _“Fool, do not flatter,”_ Damian hissed back rather than accept the compliment.  _“My conscience hath a thousand several tongues.”_

 _“And every tongue brings in a several tale,”_ Todd returned, mussing Damian’s carefully slicked-back hair, _“and every tale condemns me for a villain.”_

“Shut up and watch the play, you heathen,” Damian muttered, sinking in his seat and colouring under the backhanded praise.


End file.
